We
left the Twin Cities in search of an abandoned mental
institution. In the process, we stopped in a smallish
old mill town in western Minnesota to get a bite to eat
and couldn't help but notice that the huge flour
mill that dominated the riverfront in the "downtown"
area looked abandoned, too.

We
reluctantly climbed out of the air-conditioned car for
a closer look, and the wet, heavy heat immediately descended,
drawing the sweat from our pores so it could sit there
and not evaporate in the humidity. Yuck. However, our
spirits lifted as we approached the structure: it was
indeed vacant, and we forgot the heat as our minds turned
to looking for an entry point.

Access
to the silo side of the property was surprisingly easy;
we more or less walked into the silos, the only obstacle
being the extremely exposed nature of a building in
such a populated area in the bright summer afternoon
sun. We acted as though we owned the place, and just
walked in without acting suspicious. It helped that
we were all wearing pretty normal clothes: in anticipation
of scouting out a partially-used asylum on a Sunday
afternoon, I'd made a special effort to dress in a manner
that would not attract undue attention in a conservative
rural area. I felt like a bit of a weiner in my patterned
button-up shirt and combed hair, but the camouflage
seemed to work, as no one looked at us twice as we crossed
the cracking, weedy parking lot and entered the silos.

It
was surprisingly cool and pleasant inside, although
the smell of the thick blanket of pigeon droppings was
strong enough to punch. The odor of dry, ancient bird
poop is, well, it's an acquired taste. It's not a good
smell, I know, but the learned connotations of cool
places and adventure have been too deeply wired in for
me to ignore. I admit it; it's become a smell that I
like.

However,
I still tried not to breathe much around bird dropping
dust: there are some nasty diseases one can get that
way. Some of them will kill you. So, being a total safety
freak, I tried not to breathe deeply whenever I remembered
not to. Unfortunately for my lungs and health, there
was a lot of cool stuff in there to make me forget not
to inhale.

We
split up as our curiosity took us in varying directions;
I quickly wound up in the basement, where most of the
space was taken up by tangles of machinery, pipes, and
gears. Downstairs, spiders reigned supreme, and my head
was quickly swathed in thick webbing, chunky with the
husks of dead bugs and discarded arachnid skins. When
I discovered a tunnel that went in the direction of
the more interesting milling buildings adjacent to the
silos, I headed back upstairs to regroup with the others
before continuing.

In
the meantime, I poked around on the ground floor of
the silos, and struck gold! Well, actually it was an
old Harley Davidson shirt. I'm not that into Harleys,
but I AM into skulls, and this one featured a lot of
them. It was in a pile of old clothes and such that
had clearly belonged to a homeless person who had been
squatting there. Everything was dusted with pigeon poop;
the owner had clearly left these belongings here quite
some time back. I wondered who he'd been, and where
he was. I wondered if he was dead. Smelling the shirt,
I wondered if he'd died inside of it. However, even
terrible BO allied with bird poop and filth cannot withstand
a couple machine washes, and so I wound up carrying
my odoriferous trophy around for the rest of the exploration.

Soon
all three of us had had our fill of the silos, and
I led the group downstairs and into the utility tunnel
that led over to the milling buildings. A stairwell
halfway through the tunnel led upward and out into
the woods alongside the river, another stairwell led
up into the plant, and the very end of the tunnel
opened up into the woods by the river. One of the
few pieces of graffiti was found here; a cryptic note
to meet Agent 47 at the other end. Having just come
from the other end, we assumed Agent 47 was no longer
waiting around. Maybe the Harley shirt wearin' hobo
had got him.

Then
it was upward and onward into the mill. Each floor had
something different to recommend it. As I understand
flour milling, they would get the unfinished flour to
the top floor, and then it would get processed as it
went downward level by level, with gravity cheaply doing
a lot of the work. Some floors featured rows of old
wooden grinding machines, others had giant old wooden
boxes that were, I believe, sifters that would shake
around and sift the fine flour through. All of it seemed
to date back to the 1800's: the sifters had metal handles
made in 1860.

The
only piece of graffiti we saw through the main floors
was a single red anarchy symbol, which just warmed
my jaded punk rock heart. (Although I'd rather it
had been a single satanic pentagram, which would have
warmed by jaded 80's heavy metal heart for weeks )
There was a tense moment when Joe 3.0, enjoying the
view from a broken window, announced that some guy
was approaching. However, as he got nearer we saw
that he looked to be a laborer of some kind, and did
not seem to be coming to roust or bust us, so we forgot
about him.

We
moved quickly upward from floor to floor, driven by
the desire to see what marvels would be next, pigeons
fleeing in thundering, crazed loops before our advance.
At the top, a doorway led outward to the roof, and the
roof had a stairwell that led up into the top of the
silos. Here we discovered a king's ransom in bird poop,
and the third and final piece of graffiti, reading "FUCK
THIS MILL." Now, I'm a reasonably well-hung guy
and all, but the mill was too much woman for me, and
I was far too intimidated to follow the unknown painter's
advice.

So,
instead, we decided to get out of there, in case anyone
had seen our brazen dashes across the rooftop and was
even now calling the police. So we darted back across
the rooftop into the mill, and began the trek downward.

We
ran into the stranger on the second floor.

Well,
he wasn't entirely a stranger: it was the rough-looking
guy we'd seen walking toward the mill earlier. I was
in front coming down the stairs when I noticed a guy
in a flannel shirt and a four day beard scruff watching
us descend the stairs. He could have been a poorly
dressed working stiff or a well-dressed bum. Either
was potentially problematic: a bum might be territorial
or insane, and a regular Joe might want to call the
cops. Either might want our wallets. Or our innocence.
Or our blood. heh

As
I took the next couple of steps, I sorted rapidly through
my repertoire of potential responses, discarded both
fight and flight, and opted for a short incurious glance,
a small smile, a casual "howdy," and a continued
steady pace toward the bottom floor and the outside
world. I don't remember if he said anything back, but
he didn't follow us. As an added precaution, we headed
down into the basement tunnels, where the stranger,
who probably did not have a flashlight, would be at
a disadvantage in the darkness.

Wanting
to avoid exiting in the broad daylight from the structure,
we headed out the tunnel into the woods by the river,
and thrashed our way through the sticky heat and clinging
foliage until we reached paved civilization. Two minutes
later, we were back in the car with the air conditioning
on high. We'd originally stopped to find somewhere to
eat, and by this point we were ravenous.

After
a break for some crappy diner food, we continued onward
to our original destination.